


[Buzz]Feed My Flame

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, BuzzFeed!Pat, Editor!Jonny, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Implied Fucking, M/M, Mall Bathroom Kissing, Nervousness, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you’re tellin’ me…” Patrick begins, incredulous, hands steepled pensively in front of his face. “…That you guys want me—me!—to go to the busiest mall in New York City, ride up and down the escalator, touch dudes’ hands as we pass, and then make flirty faces at them to get their reactions on camera for some article about masculinity?” </p><p>That is what Abby's telling him, and Patrick can't believe it. </p><p>It pays off in the end, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Buzz]Feed My Flame

Patrick loves his job. 

He wasn’t too keen on it initially, however. After toiling away for four long years to get his degree in actual journalism, the whole thing sort of felt like the butt end of a bad joke. Now though, with a few months under his belt, Patrick has to admit working for BuzzFeed is pretty tight. The hours are chill and the office environment is much the same, which makes up for the hectic commute to Manhattan from his modest Queens apartment everyday. It’s brutal, but the cost of actually living in Manhattan is more so. 

Overall, the job is a good fit for him. It’s not the prestigious sports reporting gig he’d hoped to land right out the gate, but hey, you’ve got to walk before you can run, right? He’s long been promoted from ‘Quiz Guy’—which wasn’t that bad, sort of fun and surprisingly challenging, if he’s honest—and last week, his sports story was featured on the home page. 

Yes, the home page. Patrick’s becoming a pretty big deal around the office, which is like, three-fourths women. That’d also be great, if he had any interest in women, romantic or sexual, though in-office relationships are strictly prohibited at BuzzFeed, Inc., anyway. 

The bottom line here is: Patrick’s on his way up, bolstering his resumé for a real job later on, the degree-caliber stuff; and pretty soon, he’s hoping to add ‘Buzzfeed Editor’ to that, which is a significant upgrade from the current, nonspecific ‘Buzzfeed Staff’ he’s got going on. 

Every Sunday, Patrick waits for the telltale ‘ping’ of his work e-mail, signifying his assignments for the week have arrived. Occasionally, when he’s lucky, it’s: ‘hey, go crazy—write whatever you want,’ which always leads to an epic sports story, like the one that landed him the homepage. But most often, it’s more specific: ‘get with this photographer,’ ‘talk to this graphic designer,’ ‘create this quiz,’ ‘explore this subject, do that piece’… 

It varies, and that’s what Patrick’s into, the unpredictability. He entertains himself by creating entertaining things, and he never has to do the same shit twice. It’s great. 

Famous last words.

* * *

 

Patrick’s watching a Sabres game this particular Sunday when the ‘ping’ comes, and he waits for intermission to check it, because hockey and all. 

If Patrick could be doing anything else, other than daydreaming about a job in sports journalism and working at BuzzFeed while biding his time until he gets said job, it’d be playing hockey. He used to, back in Buffalo, and he was very, very good, not to pump his own tires. It proved too expensive for his parents to keep up with it, though, once his dad’s dealership tanked, and the rest is history, just like his budding hockey career. It is what it is, and rec league does him just fine.

Patrick shuffles over to his desktop—BuzzFeed _gave_ him a fucking Mac, believe it or not—socked feet rustling against wood. He can almost hear his mother’s voice, barking at him to “pick your feet up, son, for heaven’s sake.” Patrick smiles fondly to himself at the thought, chest briefly aching with a want to be back there, in Buffalo with his family, and makes a mental note to give her a call, plan a Skype session with his sisters. 

Before he can get too weepy about it, he plops down in his swivel chair, shimmies a little to settle in, and investigates the ‘ping’. 

The e-mail is from his supervisor, Abby, as per usual, but the subject line gives him pause: 

> To: pkane@buzzfeed.com  
>  From: abbysharp@buzzfeed.com  
>  Subject: _Assignment—Field Work for ‘Masculinity So Fragile’_

He carefully reads the project description, then re-reads it, squinting at the screen in utter disbelief, and—

Patrick hates his job.

* * *

 

“So you’re tellin’ me…” Patrick begins, incredulous, hands steepled pensively in front of his face as he sits in Abby’s office the following morning. He had all night to chew on it, but he’s still struggling to wrap his mind around this bullshit assignment. 

“…That you guys want me— _me_ —to go to the busiest mall in New York City, ride up and down the escalator, touch dudes’ hands as we pass, and then make flirty faces at them to get their reactions on camera for some article about masculinity?” 

Patrick says each word clearly, but it sounds so fucking stupid coming out of his own mouth, he almost can’t even finish. 

Abby just smiles at him. 

“Yes,” she says, simply. “That’s precisely what I’m telling you.” 

“But, but why?” Patrick asks, hands flying up in confused exasperation, then smacking against his thighs. Lucky enough for him, he and Abby have gotten pretty close since he started here, so she’s accustomed to his bitching and tolerates it, most often with a calm, maternal condescension that drives Patrick a little batshit. 

“Because, Patrick. It’s interesting, entertaining, a fun little social experiment—” 

“—That’s gonna land me an ass beating!” Patrick tells her, voice going high with distress. Growing up where he did, having known he liked dick since age thirteen—maybe even earlier than that—and being unashamed of it, he’s been on the tough end of quite a few. 

Patrick’s not looking to revisit those days. His mouth is too pretty to take a fist, or so he’s been told. 

“Oh, Patrick, it will not! Nobody’s going to fight you,” she says, tone reassuring despite her obvious amusement. “And if they try, just point out the cameras, flash your credentials, and _then_ they won’t.” 

“Is this even legal?” Patrick asks dubiously, because it seems like borderline harassment, at worst, or something extra sketchy, at the very least. He’s not a lawyer or anything, but still. 

“To graze someone’s hand?” she counters, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think so.” 

“Is it because I’m gay? Because if it is, then that’s gotta be like, discrimination or some—”

“Oh my—Stop yourself,” Abby interrupts, holding up a hand. “We picked you because you’re the most attractive, personable male in this office, Patrick, but if you’re going to be such a little chicken about it, then fine, we’ll give it to Andrew.” 

Patrick knows the sights and sounds of a gauntlet when one’s been thrown down, but for the life of him, that recognition never makes it easier to let it lie there. The flattery didn’t hurt either. 

“Fine! Fine. Fine,” he surrenders, huffily crossing his arms over his chest, channeling his inner ten year old. He’s reminded again, of losing a hard fought argument with his mother, deflated and grumpy. Damnit, Abby. “But I swear, if someone punches me…” 

“Dress nicely, like it’s a date,” she answers cheerily, glossing over Patrick’s continued concerns like they’re unfounded, which they aren’t, says the face that’s been hit before. “You go tomorrow.” 

“Great,” Patrick deadpans as he rises to make his dramatic exit, mentally calculating the distance from the Shops at Atlas to the nearest hospital, just in case.

* * *

 

Patrick tugs at his rolled up sleeves, hands fidgety and palms sweaty. He’ll have to get a handle on that before the touching starts, lest he embarrass himself even more than his current predicament necessitates.

He’d done as he was told and dressed in his best date night outfit—dark jeans and a solid blue button down to make his eyes pop; he practically had to dust the cobwebs off ‘em, it’s been so long since he’s gone out and worn anything but his BuzzFeed-mandated khakis—and fuck, if it isn’t a bazillion degrees, Patrick’s skin too hot, his clothes too tight and uncomfortable.  
  
How could anyone be comfortable, anyway, knowing they were about to spend the next three hours making other people the exact opposite? 

Patrick can’t believe he’s even doing this, thinking back to his protests in Abby’s office; he caved so easily, he’s appalled at himself. 

Someone is sure to punch him. He understands that, while this _is_ New York, certainly a more progressive area of the country, there are homophobic assholes everywhere—everywhere. Patrick surveys the shoppers as he hovers near the foot of the escalator, jittery on his feet. Everyone looks friendly enough, sure, but that’s now. What about later, after they’ve had their hands touched by a total stranger? What about then?

“Get ahold of your fucking self,” Patrick mutters quietly, the start of a mini pep talk—more of a self-warning, really. He has to throw some confidence behind this, if it’s going to work, and it has to work the first go around, because Patrick is not coming back here a second day to humiliate himself further if the footage isn’t to Abby’s liking. He just isn’t. 

He has fifteen hands to touch, so he steels himself, ready to get it the hell over with. 

Patrick locks in on his first target, double-checking to make sure the strategically placed camera guys are good to go. God, that sounds so fucking creepy and predatory, he can’t even acknowledge his own thought processes in order to justify them. 

The guy in question is tall, gangling and floppy haired, donning hipster jeans and dark-rimmed nerd glasses. Patrick’s hopeful that indicative of a pacifist-type and not an ‘I’ll kick your ass for touching me’ type. He takes a deep breath and steps onto the escalator, cognizant of the fact that this dude is totally incognizant of what’s about to happen, because who the fuck would suspect some bullshit like this to go down at the mall on a Tuesday? 

His hand is there, right on the rail, and Patrick reaches over with his own, keeps his touch feather-light as he grazes the guy’s hand when they pass. Patrick’s heart is beating wildly in his chest—holy shit, he still can’t believe he’s doing this, having actually done it only making the disbelief more real. Essentially touching people for money, here. Jesus Christ. 

Hipster Jeans jerks his hand away, stares incredulously at it, as if he can’t believe it’s just been violated in such a way, and then glares daggers at Patrick. He gives Hipster Jeans a little nod, and he recoils, countering with total confusion and shock. Patrick smiles meekly. 

So kicks off the trend for the remainder of the afternoon. 

Shock. Confusion. Sometimes a little disgust and disdain, sprinkled with the occasional smile and a nod or wave. It’s a mixed bag, really, and Patrick hates to admit it, but Abby was right: this is interesting and funny. 

The most unsuspecting dudes have the best reactions. 

For example, this elderly guy, who Patrick expected to be chill about it, literally shook his fist—shook his wrinkly, old fist!—at him afterwards. It was the closest Patrick came to being punched before lunchtime. 

Then another guy with a cutoff tank and a fuckload of tattoos (Patrick had to gather his courage to touch him, no doubt) just shrugged, looked at his hand for a split second, then shot Patrick a finger gun, like he couldn’t have cared less. 

Another guy blew him a kiss. 

Patrick only had to flash his badge once, when this guy literally hit the floor at the bottom and circled around to come back up immediately, shoving through the crowd, ready (and able, based on size) to kick Patrick’s ass. 

“Shit, wait, no, I’m sorry!” Patrick rambled, remorseful and non-threatening, waving his hands frantically to get the dude to chill. “I work for BuzzFeed, please don’t kill me, there are cameras!” 

It wasn’t very dignified, but it got his point across sans-fists, so who’s the real winner here? Patrick is. The guy ended up laughing and shaking his hand before finishing the semi-awkward ride up with Patrick, and then going right back down to join his friends. 

It’s been a weird day, is all he’s saying. 

Patrick’s at the bottom of the escalator when he realizes he’s done his fifteenth, that this little ‘social experiment’ is officially over with, but— 

Holy shit, that guy stepping on is smokin’ hot. It seems an injustice, that descriptor—‘hot’—when he’s probably the most attractive guy in the entire mall. Patrick hasn’t seen everyone for comparison purposes, but he’s definitely a solid ten, better looking than anyone Patrick’s touched all day, by a long shot. 

Goddamn. 

He’s tall, but not too tall, well dressed, and thick as fuck, from what Patrick can see. He’s wearing dark jeans, like Patrick’s, and a button down, also like Patrick’s, except his is more filled out, though Patrick isn’t puny by any means; he frequents the gym, too, okay? 

His shirt is pale yellow, his tan, perfect skin standing out in beautiful contrast where his sleeves are rolled up, his chest exposed due to the couple extra buttons he’s left obscenely undone. It’s hard to tell from the distance, but his eyes seem dark, almost black as he scans the mall, and even though they aren’t trained on Patrick, he’s picking up an intensity from this guy. It’s weird, like Patrick’s being pulled toward him or some strange, otherworldly shit. 

Patrick’s probably just feeling himself, cocky from all the touching and no punching that’s been going on today, and this guy is one hundred percent his type, so it’s difficult to resist. He quickly makes the executive decision to stop trying and steps onto the escalator, prepared to push his total to sixteen. He deliberated for so long that Dark Eyes is three-fourths of the way down already, but Patrick can’t help himself, his hand is right there. 

Patrick unintentionally takes things a step further than he did with the other fifteen, delicately grazing his fingertips over his hand, then letting them trail up his taut forearm. He didn’t mean to, but once he made contact with that gorgeous, tan skin, he couldn’t pull away. 

Dark Eyes’ hand clenches into a fist, veins protruding, muscles shifting, and when he lifts his head to lock those eyes on Patrick. 

Sweet Lord. Patrick hasn’t been the subject of an eye-fucking in quite some time, but he knows what one looks like. He’s remembering what one feels like, too. 

Patrick flushes hot all over, from his cheeks, to the tips of his ears and expanse of his chest; he licks his lips involuntarily, mouth going a bit dry as he nods at Dark Eyes, and for a moment—at the risk of sounding like a Disney cliché—it’s like they’re the only two in the building. 

Dark Eyes’ lips part slightly, eyes burning into Patrick’s before they drop to his mouth, then roam over the bit of Patrick’s body that’s unshielded by other mall-goers. He’s reached the floor now, but he’s still standing there, watching as Patrick ascends, and Patrick’s just as caught in the trance as he is. 

So caught, in fact, that he almost fucking trips and breaks his neck when the escalator runs into tile. The embarrassment brings him back to planet earth real quick, and he makes a run for it, ducking into the nearest store. 

Patrick presses himself against the wall, the cool surface on his back calming, cutting through the warmth, and fuck—he does not have a boner. 

He doesn’t. 

 

****

 

When Patrick gets back to the office, Abby greets him at the door. 

“Patrick! How’d it go?” 

He’s not sure, but his cheeks still feel flushed, and his most prominent thoughts are of Dark Eyes. He can’t remember ever being looked at that way before, and even now, it’s as if he can still feel that gaze on him, heated and intense, like a tingle beneath his skin. 

Patrick obviously isn’t telling Abby any of that. 

“Well, nobody punched me, if that’s what you’re asking,” he mumbles dismissively. 

Patrick’s feeling inexplicably bummed about the whole thing, if he’s honest. New York City is a big place, so chances are, he’ll never see the guy again. It makes him feel a strange sort of emptiness in his chest, longing for someone he never actually had, someone he doesn’t even know. 

“Told you they wouldn’t. A victory for us all, indeed!” Abby calls after him, and Patrick rolls his eyes, careful not to let her see, though she can probably detect it in his body language, anyway. She’s really such a mom sometimes, all smug ‘I told you so’s and wise ‘indeed’s. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick waves her off, shuffling to his office in a daze. 

If he fast-forwards the mall footage to the end and watches it an indeterminable number of times, carefully memorizing every detail of Dark Eyes’ face, nobody has to know.

* * *

 

The piece runs. 

It’s funny and entertaining and interesting, just like Abby said it’d be. 

The hits rain in. 

Dark Eyes is featured in it, of course, though Patrick wasn’t crazy about the idea. Their moment felt—well, it felt personal, more private in a way, despite the cameras and the crowd. It was a thirty-second encounter, at most, but it seemed like more, significant. The way the collab-writers framed it, however, like Dark Eyes was staring at Patrick with fiery scorn instead of… 

Fuck it. Patrick doesn’t know what it was anymore—whatever, it’s stupid.

The days pass by, and he tries to forget.

 

****

 

 It’s a lazy Saturday evening when Patrick hears the ‘ping’ of his work e-mail, one day too soon. He’d spoken with his mom earlier that morning, and she insisted on sending him some soup recipe she knows he’ll never utilize, despite the frigid months ahead; so he’s quick to assume it’s just her, getting his e-mail addresses mixed up, again. 

Patrick’s got no desire to get up, comfy and warm in his boxers and fluffy blanket on the couch, but something feels strangely urgent about it, so he extricates himself, nipples going hard, skin goosepimpling upon exposure to the chilly air of his apartment. His full body shiver causes him to rethinks things, and he grabs his blanket, wrapping it around him like a toasty burrito before waddling to his desktop. 

It’s not from his mom. It’s not from Abby, either. 

There’s no subject line, but the content quickly gets Patrick’s attention—all of it, mind and body. 

> To: pkane@buzzfeed.com  
>  From: jtoews@gmail.com  
>  Subject: No Subject  
>     
>  did my masculinity seem fragile to you?

Patrick stifles a gasp, despite being the only person around to hear it, pulse quickening as he stares at the e-mail.

It’s him, Dark Eyes.

Patrick doesn’t know it, in the sense of having any actual confirmation, but he knows it’s him; he can feel it. He can also feel that the temperature in his apartment has increased exponentially in the last minute, or maybe it’s just him. Either way, he tosses back the blanket and his hands are shaky, already sweaty, as he types his reply:  

> To: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> Not as fragile as some others I encountered that day, no. 

Patrick uses proper capitalization, because he’s civilized and professional, and holds his breath, waiting for an answer, though he’s aware it might not be immediate.

It’s immediate. He scrambles to click it open.  

> To: pkane@buzzfeed.com  
>  From: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> you make a habit of that kind of thing? touching strangers to get a rise out of them? 

Patrick blushes, embarrassed. All these days later, article released and everything, and he still can’t believe he let Abby sucker him into that.

> To: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> Nope, just a one time deal.

Patrick decides to press his luck, call some indirect attention to the ‘thing’ between them before pressing send. 

> I got a rise out of you though, huh?

His response doesn’t come for five whole minutes, during which time Patrick’s taken to pacing his living room, spiraling into worst-case scenarios and kicking himself for getting semi-flirty with a guy he doesn’t even know. Patrick put him in a BuzzFeed article for fuck’s sake—an article that essentially insulted the masculinity of every male involved; he’d probably e-mailed Patrick to demand to be taken out of the thing! 

Patrick stubs his pinky toe in his haste to get back to the desk, howling and cursing in pain; he is otherwise undeterred.

> To: pkane@buzzfeed.com  
>  From: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> something like that. meet me back at the escalator tomorrow and we can discuss. 

Patrick’s eyes go wide, heat pooling in his belly at the thought of seeing this guy again—not in video or gif-form—and at _his_ request, no less.

Holy fuck.

He tries to play it cool, wait two or three minutes before answering, so he doesn’t come off all desperate and shit.

> To: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> Umm, I could do five o’clock? You were in the yellow shirt, right? 

Patrick feels idiotic including the last inquiry, because he’s so completely convinced that this is Dark Eyes, but he had to check for his own peace of mind. This almost seems too good to be true, and that one dude did blow him a kiss; Patrick doesn’t want there to be any miscommunication here.

Dark Eyes doesn’t bother holding off extra minutes. The return ‘ping’ is instantaneous. 

> To: pkane@buzzfeed.com  
>  From: jtoews@gmail.com
> 
> yes, patrick. see you at five.
> 
> jonathan 

_Jonathan._

Jesus, even his fucking name is sexy, and the way he just casually used Patrick’s…

He practically convulses, sprinting to the shower to rub one out, the too-hot water easing the tension in his muscles. 

Patrick comes in a minute and thirty flat, with Jonathan’s name on his lips.

He’s only slightly ashamed.

* * *

 

The next day, Patrick arrives at the mall forty-five minutes early and goes to his favorite store to buy a new shirt for work. This could perhaps be interpreted as overeager behavior, but he had entirely too much nervous energy coursing through him to sit at home for a single second longer. Plus, he thought it’d be smart to have something to occupy his hands with when Jonathan shows up, lest he feel compelled to touch him again.

It’s mid-afternoon, and the Sunday crowd is thin, which is a blessing, because it’ll be easier to spot Jonathan that way; not to mention, fewer people for Patrick to potentially humiliate himself in front of, if things go south. The sparse crowd is also a curse, though, because he’s got time to kill now, and a limited number of people to watch. 

That’s how he finds himself alone at a two-person table, situated near the escalator, waiting. 

He looks at his new shirt again, just for something to do, and groans at the price tag. It was an emotion-fueled purchase though, so he can afford to give himself a break—figuratively, not literally. Living in New York is expensive as fuck, even for a studio in Queens.

When he examines the shirt for so long he starts to hate it, he fiddles with his hair, fucks around on his phone, bites at his cuticles as his leg bounces… 

Patrick’s bad at waiting. 

He checks the time, for the twenty-fifth time—4:55—and he’s juuust beginning to feel like a moron, the hot sting of embarrassment creeping in at the edges for thinking this’s a thing that was actually going to happen, when he hears a low, velvety smooth voice from behind.

“Been here a while, eh?” 

Patrick startles, but quickly gathers himself, taking a deep, calming breath. He’s spent a shameful amount of time imagining what Jonathan sounds like, and now he knows: hot, that’s what. With an accent that sounds vaguely…Canadian, for what little Patrick’s heard; he lives close enough to the border to know. 

When Patrick shifts in his chair to face him, he’s reminded anew how attractive Jonathan is, and as was the case with their first encounter, Patrick’s itching to get closer to him. God, he’s gorgeous, dressed in the comfiest looking sweater Patrick’s ever seen, that clings to his body so seamlessly, it’s criminal.

Patrick almost forgets that an actual response with words is appropriate here, content to silently stare all afternoon. 

“Uhh, not too long,” he fibs, reaching for his shopping bag to shake it for emphasis. “Had a shirt to buy.”

“I see,” Jonathan smiles easily, all boyish and confident, stepping forward and extending his hand. It’s so different from that burning look he’d given Patrick on the escalator, but for some reason, it hits him just as hard, like a kick to the chest. 

Patrick places his hand in Jonathan’s to find it’s just as he expected it would be: solid and warm and soft. 

“It’s really nice to see you again, Patrick,” he says sincerely, with the familiarity of two friends catching up after not seeing each other for a while; he doesn’t let go of Patrick’s hand as he stutters his response.

“It’s, um—you, too, Jonathan.” 

“You can call me Jonny,” he suggests, and man, Patrick’s quickly learning that ol’ Jonny here—he doesn’t skimp on the eye contact; he captivates, demands attention with it. 

Patrick wants to give it to him. 

“Jonny,” Patrick repeats, enjoying the feel of it in his mouth as well as the sound of it coming out. Jonny’s fingers tighten around his, then he slides his hand free, gesturing to the chair opposite Patrick. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

“Of course, absolutely,” Patrick nods, nearly swallowing his own tongue when Jonny moves past him to reveal the most flawlessly round ass he’s ever seen; the thing is downright planetary, Patrick’s got no idea how he stuffed it into those pants. 

His mouth is still slightly agape once Jonny sits, his thighs casually spread, forearm resting on the table’s edge, but for the life of him, he can’t remember how to close it.

“You okay?” Jonny smirks. Patrick doesn’t miss the way Jonny’s gaze drops to his mouth when he snaps it shut, tongue dipping out to moisten his dry lips. 

“Me? I’m fine,” Patrick deflects, clearing his throat. He figures it’s best to get this out of the way now, so he continues on, “And also, I’m uh, sorry about the thing—the escalator thing. It was for my job, obviously.” 

The last part is a half-truth, as Patrick had already filled his required fifteen touches before Jonny. He was an extra, for Patrick’s personal benefit only, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Don’t be,” Jonny tells him, leaning forward to his elbows. “I’m not.”

“Okay, I take it back then,” Patrick replies, and Jonny nods, satisfied. Usually it takes Patrick some time to adjust to someone new, warm up to them and such; but there’s something about the way Jonny’s looking at him, all earnest and attentive, that sets Patrick at ease, leaves him unafraid to speak his mind freely. “You read the whole piece, I’m assuming?” 

“I skimmed it,” Jonny shrugs, noncommittal, corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a wider smile, hiding some truth beneath it. “A friend sent it to me, said I’d landed myself a feature. The gifs were nice.” 

The gifs _were_ nice, Patrick can’t argue there. He may or may not have saved the ones of Jonny, and of Patrick touching him, to his phone for safekeeping. The real thing, here in front of him, is so much better. 

“I’ll pass your praise along to the appropriate parties at BuzzFeed, Inc.,” Patrick grins, and Jonny chuckles. It’s a fucking wonderful sound. 

“You like your job there?” Jonny asks, like he’s genuinely interested in the answer, so Patrick tells the truth. 

“I do now, yeah,” he says. “At first I thought it was beneath me, not serious enough or whatever, but it’s been a good experience.” 

“Everybody’s gotta start somewhere,” Jonny points out, matter of fact, and Patrick ‘hmm’s in agreement. 

“Where’d you start?” Patrick asks, realizing a second late that it was a pretty vague question, easily interpreted as invasive. He’s not asking for Jonny’s life story here, though he desperately wants to know it, so he clarifies, “Like, what do you do?” 

“I work at a publishing house, assistant to the editor,” Jonny says, each word succinct, with a twinge of bitterness to his job title, like he’s still in that ‘not too keen on it’ phase, then he goes silent. Patrick gets the underlying sense that he’s uncomfortable talking about himself in detail, so he urges Jonny to continue with a ‘yeah, go on’ twirl of his hand. “I read manuscripts mostly—proofreading and spellchecking spellcheck. Real riveting stuff, but I’m workin’ my way up.” 

“To utilizing proper capitalization, I hope,” Patrick teases, thinking back to their e-mails. He relishes the puzzled, slightly offended expression that flashes across Jonny’s face before it turns knowing. Patrick’s secretly pleased they have that in common, though—a love for reading, writing, and creative expression; it’s a delightful coincidence. 

“I don’t have the patience for it on my personal,” Jonny says with a dismissive shift of his shoulders. Patrick definitely picks up that vibe from him—impatient to a degree that even doing something as simple as pressing the ‘shift’ key, when he doesn’t have to, seems extraneous. “I still get my point across.” 

“Fair enough,” Patrick concedes, because Jonny’s right; Patrick’s never had anyone slide into his e-mail more effectively in his life, use of capital letters be damned. 

There’s a moment of brief silence, and Patrick takes advantage of it, letting his eyes drift shamelessly over Jonny’s chest and shoulders, the thin, soft material of his sweater perfectly hugging hard muscle. Patrick’s mouth goes dry, desire stirring, and the question’s passed his lips before he can stop it: 

“Sooo, what exactly are we doin’ here?” 

Jonny blinks a couple times, a slow, shy smile creeping to his face. 

“Gettin’ some food, if you’re interested,” he says, which isn’t at all what Patrick was asking, and Jonny knows that, if his smirk is any indication. Truthfully, the thought of scarfing down mall food in front of Jonny makes Patrick kind of nauseous, nerves resurfacing. 

“I could maybe go for a pretzel,” Patrick suggests. Jonny looks thoughtful for a second before standing. 

“After you,” he says, waving his hand in an accompanying gesture, and Patrick’s quick to his feet.

 

They make their way to Auntie Anne’s, and while Patrick wishes Jonny would lead the way so he could admire that voluptuous ass, walking beside him is great, too. Patrick sneaks glances at him, sometimes catching Jonny sneaking ones of his own. He’s surprisingly graceful, even if he sort of waddles a little; it’s the thighs, Patrick can only assume. Stout and thick, testing the limits of whatever super-material his pants are made of. 

Out the corner of his eye, Patrick notices Jonny reach up to run a hand through his short, dark hair, and Patrick’s hit with an urge to do that himself; he bets it’s soft, just like the rest of him, aside from, you know, all the muscles Patrick wants to dig his fingers into. Then, in a seemingly casual move—calculated or not, Patrick doesn’t know—Jonny lets his arm swing back to his side, hand brushing against Patrick’s on its journey, just a slight tickle of knuckles against skin. 

It’s brief and completely harmless, but Patrick’s mind is instantly thrown back to the escalator, blushing as he relives the intensity of that moment for the thousandth time, brought on by such a feather-light touch, his fingers on Jonny’s hand, dragging easily up his forearm. 

Patrick sucks in a quick breath, fingers twitching reflexively, and before he can do something really fucking mortifying, like grab Jonny’s hand—heaven forbid—they arrive at the line.  
  
Saved by the pretzels.

Patrick needs no time to decide, ordering his usual—a toasty, sweet almond pretzel with caramel dipping sauce—and tries not to judge too harshly when Jonny gets the lamest combo in the whole box: plain, lightly salted, no dipping sauce at all. 

Patrick goes for his wallet, eyes widening when Jonny’s fingers circle his wrist to stop him. 

“I’ve got it,” he says coolly, with a finality that makes Patrick want to argue, so he does. 

“Oh, no, you do not.” Patrick twists against his grip in protest. Jonny’s first response is to squeeze a little tighter, then delicately smooth his thumb along the sensitive skin of Patrick’s inner wrist; the touch resonates in his groin and quite literally everywhere else. 

“Let me,” Jonny breathes out, and Patrick finds himself nodding in agreement, even though he was sure he still had some fight left in him. When Jonny’s gotten his way, he clears his throat and smiles in triumph. “Besides, it’s the least I can do since you so graciously included me in such a flattering article.” 

Patrick chuckles at Jonny’s blatant sarcasm, still a little dazed, to be quite honest. Jonny doesn’t seem to have that problem; it’s like he can jump from an intense moment to a casual one easily, unaffected as if the former never occurred. 

“Still not over the masculinity dig, huh?” 

“Not just yet,” Jonny replies, and his tone lends itself to some unspoken promise of revenge Patrick’s not sure about, but it leaves him feeling all tingly just the same.

  

They head over to a four-person table with their pretzels and waters, and instead of taking the chair opposite Patrick, Jonny sits next to him, much to his satisfaction. Their knees bump together beneath the table when Jonny scoots forward, and Patrick moves his leg over out of courtesy only to have Jonny’s follow, seeking out that contact. 

Patrick hides his smile in a mouthful of pretzel and caramel sauce. 

“I honestly can’t believe you’re eating that,” Jonny blurts disapprovingly, like he couldn’t hold it anymore. “So much sugar.”

“What’re you? The sugar police?” Patrick retorts, admittedly not his best comeback. “It’s fucking bomb.” 

“Yeah, like, a fucking calorie bomb,” Jonny adds, equally as lame. 

“You just eat your grandpa pretzel, okay?” Patrick tells him, then scoffs, “lightly salted…so basic.” 

“I like my snacks sans-diabetes, thanks,” Jonny replies flatly, nudging him gently in the shin. 

Patrick’s struck again, by how simple and unforced things are between them, banter flowing easily. He’s not even sure how to pronounce Jonny’s last name for fuck’s sake—‘Toes’ ‘To-ews’ who knows? —but it feels like they’ve known each other forever instead of less than an hour. 

“What’s the last super sugary thing you ate, man?” Patrick asks after a beat, curious as to the actual depths of this guy’s sweets-depravation here. It’s unhealthy not to splurge every once in a while, or that’s Patrick’s thinking, anyway. 

Jonny furrows his brow in thought, and the fact that he’s taking so long to come up with something means trouble. 

“Umm, maybe some Lucky Charms fairly recently?” he admits sheepishly, the phrasing leaving Patrick with some doubts about the claim’s authenticity. Jonny pops a bite of his basic-ass pretzel in his mouth, but not before he—honest to god—flicks some salt particles off it first. “I eat most of my desserts sugar-free.” 

“Sugar-free? _Sugar-free_?” Patrick exclaims, aghast. “Jonny, dessert isn’t even worth eating if it’s like that. You might as well just skip!” 

“There are natural substitutes you can use to make things taste sweet that aren’t refined sugars, Patrick,” Jonny replies, voice slipping into lecture-mode. “Like honey, dates, bananas, maple syrup—” 

“Stop, just stop! You’re eating a bite of this pretzel,” Patrick insists, breaking off a piece and dipping it in the caramel before he holds it out. 

“I am not,” Jonny says stubbornly. 

“Love yourself and eat this fucking pretzel.”

Patrick shakes at him. Jonny grimaces. 

“Eat it!” Patrick repeats, a demanding half-chuckle. This is damn ridiculous! One bite isn’t going to kill him. He tells Jonny as much. 

“Fine! Fine,” Jonny concedes, snatching the bite from Patrick’s fingers and popping it into his mouth. He chews quickly and washes it down with a giant gulp of water, killing half the bottle. 

“You ruined it,” Patrick says, crestfallen. He was supposed to chew slowly and savor it, because it’s precious and delicious. 

“I ate it, did I not?” he replies, deadpan. 

“More like inhaled it,” Patrick amends. “Did you like it?” 

“Eat your pretzel, Patrick,” Jonny mutters, diverting the subject and his gaze, and— 

“You did! You liked it, huh?” Patrick accuses, and Jonny rolls his eyes. 

“It was alright.” 

It’s not the most ringing endorsement Patrick’s ever heard, but it was an admission nonetheless, so he smirks, takes his victory, and gets back to business. He does his best to really gross Jonny out on the next bite, scooping up extra-extra caramel before going to his mouth with it. 

Jonny makes a gagging face, but Patrick knows he’s just frontin’ now, so he ignores it. When he shoves the bite in, a bit of caramel smears on the edge of his mouth, and the events that unfold as a result are so stunning, Patrick almost faints. 

It’s as if it’s instinctual, Jonny’s reaction, his hand coming up to Patrick’s face immediately, thumb right there, wiping away the caramel, grazing Patrick’s bottom lip. Then, because he’s obviously out to kill, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it off. 

“Better like that,” he remarks nonchalantly, eyes dark, and Patrick’s got no idea what his face is doing, but he’s fully aware of what his dick’s doing, stirring in his jeans already, and— 

“I’m, uh—be right back. I’ve gotta piss,” Patrick stutters, adjusting himself discreetly and hightailing it to the fucking bathroom, heart beating out of his chest. He’s gone hot all over, mind racing. 

Is he losing it? Did that just? — _Holy shit._

The bathroom isn’t far, and Patrick haphazardly flings open the door and paces for a minute, grateful there’s nobody in there to see this; bless the Sunday crowd. His nerves are back, and it’s like they stored up for this meltdown, biding their time while Patrick was feeling all comfortable and shit to catch him off guard. It’s obvious that Jonny’s either: a) into him, b) royally fucking with him over that BuzzFeed shit, or c) both. 

Either way, Patrick doesn’t know what to do with it. 

After only ten more seconds of freaking out (because he’s an adult), Patrick settles enough to actually take a leak and steps to the urinal. He’s just taken a deep, cleansing breath when the door opens and effectively ruins his zen, his head jerking to the sound. 

Of course, it’s Jonny, and of course, he waltzes over to the pisser right next to Patrick’s.

“Don’t you know you’re s’posed to skip one? It’s common courtesy,” Patrick states, dick in his hand, stream flowing nicely. He’s pissed in front of like, a thousand dudes in his lifetime, so it’s not weird, but it is a little atypical for the atmosphere in a bathroom to be this charged, the easiness they’d known earlier transitioning into something heated and anticipatory. 

“Musta missed that one in urinal etiquette class,” Jonny answers sassily, shaking it twice before going to wash his hands. Patrick follows. 

There are only paper towels, hand driers out of order, so Jonny just wipes his off on his pants like a heathen. Patrick assumes it’s an anti-paper towel, tree-hugging thing, based off what he already knows of Jonny’s uber-healthy, no sugar diet, but Patrick doesn’t play that game. He’s not even sure how he’s able to formulate coherent thoughts in this thick ass silence, honestly, swallowing hard as he pulls off a couple paper towels. 

Suddenly, Patrick feels Jonny there, crowding into the space at his back, strong hands landing on Patrick’s shoulders, drifting down his biceps. He can feel the heat of Jonny all over him, and this closeness—it doesn’t feel out of line or presumptuous or uncomfortable. 

It feels right, like an inevitability since the moment he touched Jonny’s hand on that escalator. 

“ _Patrick_ ,” Jonny whispers on an exhale, and Patrick shivers, Jonny’s breath hot on his neck. He dips his head down further, delicately trails the tip of his nose and lips along the place where Patrick’s neck meets shoulder. Patrick practically short-circuits; it feels so good, and it’s not nearly the extent of what he’s after. “If you want me to stop, just say so.” 

“I don’t—I don’t want you to stop,” Patrick says, voice breathy, almost a whine, hands clenching into fists as he suppresses the urge to touch back. 

Apparently that’s all Jonny needed to hear though, because the next thing Patrick knows, Jonny’s tightened his grip and Patrick’s back is pressed against cool tile, chest flush with Jonny’s. He runs his hands down Patrick’s arms to hold his wrists, then lifts them to pin above Patrick’s head, never using more force than Patrick could escape from if he chose to. Just like earlier, it’s easy; sensual now, nothing unwanted about it. 

Patrick’s breathing is much, much too loud, he knows, but he can’t get a handle on it and refuses to be embarrassed since Jonny’s isn’t much better. He noses along Patrick’s collarbone, then up his neck and beneath his ear. 

“Does it seem fragile now?” he asks, and Patrick doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him; nervy and turned on, sure, but a chuckle all the same. Jonny still can’t let that shit go. Patrick represses the urge to tease him further, point out the fact that Jonny’s determination to prove it _isn’t_ could perhaps suggest that it _is_. But he doesn’t think that’s actually true, didn’t from the start. Patrick doesn’t know if he’s ever met another person so sure of everything they’ve got going on than Jonny. It’s amazing, almost intimidatingly so. 

“Never did,” Patrick answers truthfully, pressing against Jonny’s hold. He releases immediately, and Patrick lets his arms wind around Jonny’s neck. Feeling those muscles he’s been dying to touch, right there under his hands, is a lot. Patrick flexes his fingers appreciatively before continuing on, “I didn’t—I didn’t want them to put you in there.” 

“Glad they did,” Jonny admits, “Or else I never would’ve…” he trails off, dark eyes totally focused on Patrick, considering. “Fuck, come back to my place with me.” 

“I barely know you,” Patrick points out meekly, though it almost feels insulting to say, despite the truth of it. Jonny must agree, because he narrows his eyes before they turn fond, and leans in to press a soft kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth. Then he hovers there, waiting for Patrick to initiate more. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Patrick closes the short distance on a muted gasp, sinking into the kiss, Jonny’s fingers bruising on his hips. It’s close-mouthed at first, just a desperate, hard meeting of lips, until Jonny opens up for him, gives Patrick that hint of space to trace his tongue over Jonny’s top lip, wet and perfect. He groans from deep in his chest, nipping at Patrick’s bottom one before pulling back entirely too soon. 

“Does it really feel like that to you?” Jonny whispers, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s, dark eyes imploring, mesmerizing. It takes Patrick a second to remember what they were even saying, head so full of Jonny and what they’re doing here; it’s hard to focus on anything else. “It doesn’t to me. But regardless, I just—lemme take you home, Patrick.” 

In truth, it doesn’t actually feel like they barely know each other to Patrick, either, if he factors his incessant worrying out of the equation. He’s been memorizing Jonny’s face for some time now, since their first meeting, daydreaming about it. So now, being with him like this—it feels newly familiar, as contradictory as that sounds. Patrick wants so badly to go wherever Jonny wants to take him and explore this thing further—somewhere that isn’t the bathroom in Shops at Atlas. 

Patrick doesn’t bother saying any of that. Instead, he kisses Jonny again, chaste and quick, and then nods. 

“Yeah, Jonny. Take me home.” 

 

Jonny leads Patrick out of the bathroom with a guiding hand to the small of his back, and aside from a pit stop at their table to grab Patrick’s shopping bag—which was thankfully still there, that shirt was not cheap—they don’t stop until they get to Jonny’s car. Patrick internally rejoices in his decision to take a cab to the mall today as he slides in. 

The ride is quiet and tension-filled, but the good kind—the hot kind. Just like that heavy silence in the bathroom, Patrick eagerly anticipating what’s to come. His leg bounces nervously as he notes their eastward route, picking at his nails (or lack thereof) absentmindedly. Jonny must live in Queens, too. Another surprising coincidence. 

As is typically the case, Patrick appears more wound up than he thinks apparently, because a couple seconds later, Jonny’s hand is warm on his thigh to still it. 

“Ease up over there, eh? I’m not takin’ you somewhere for murder,” Jonny teases, and Patrick laughs, enjoying the look on Jonny’s face: pleasantly smug, like he thinks he’s made a super funny joke…but not really. 

“You’re Canadian,” Patrick notes aloud, but not because he needs the confirmation; he’s very sure of this fact. He just wants Jonny to know he’s onto him and admire his detective skills for their excellence. 

“Guilty as charged,” Jonny says, accent the thickest Patrick’s heard it, definitely intentional. He squeezes Patrick’s leg once before moving his hand to the radio and turning up the volume, just for some background noise. 

It’s Our Lady-fucking-Peace, as if Jonny needed to incriminate himself further. 

“Is this an actual CD in your car?” Patrick asks, incredulous. “You are sooo Canadian.” 

“Is that an issue?” Jonny counters, side-eyeing Patrick, but careful to keep his eyes on the road for the most part. Patrick appreciates that. New York drivers are totally batshit—gotta keep your head in the game, or else; that’s why Patrick opts for public transit most of the time. 

“Nah, man, I dig it,” Patrick tells him, even though he’s American to the bone, and blushes, despite keeping the most revealing aspect of that truth to himself. 

He just digs Jonny.

 

****

 

Jonny’s place is bigger than Patrick’s, which isn’t difficult, since Patrick lives in a studio apartment; and nicer, too, which also isn’t difficult, since Patrick’s sort of broke, hence the studio apartment. 

It’s modestly decorated in neutral tones; a couple pretty interesting pieces of art here and there, and a fuckload of books, obviously, which is the only similarity Patrick can draw between their respective spaces, aside from the basics. 

The urgency of the moment from the bathroom has subsided, and Patrick’s feeling a little awkward about it, honestly. He’d expected to come here, get down or whatever, then be sent on his way, as much as it would pain him. But Jonny’s being super casual, smile inviting, like he’s genuinely thrilled to have Patrick in his home for a visit. 

“Sweet place,” Patrick remarks, glancing around at all Jonny’s fancy kitchen appliances. “I’m not too far from here, actually.” 

“No?” Jonny perks up at that, and it makes Patrick feel all warm in his chest. 

“Nah, maybe ten minutes,” Patrick confirms. “On the shittier side.” 

“Home is what’cha make it,” Jonny shrugs, invoking the power of positive thinking. It’s cute. “Want a beer?”

“Is it Canadian?” Patrick asks, like it’s a dirty word, and Jonny smiles, bashful, which means it is. 

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, eh?” Patrick teases, taking his fake Canadian accent for a spin. Jonny’s unamused, or pretends to be, anyway. 

“Oh, fuck off,” he says, no heat to it whatsoever. “Do you want one or not?” 

“Yeah, I do, thanks.” 

Patrick watches, hovering by the bar as Jonny moves to the fridge to get it, grabbing one for himself and one for Patrick. He gets a nice eyeful of that sweet ass when Jonny bends over. It’s fantastic; Patrick could get very used to it. 

Jonny pops the caps off on the edge of the counter and tosses them in the trash as he walks around the island and steps into Patrick’s space. He makes like he’s going to hand the beer to him and then jerks it back, licking his lips and bending down like he requires payment for it first, grin sly. 

Patrick’s not big on Molson, but he’ll pay this price for one any day, stretching up on his tiptoes to press his lips to Jonny’s, hands resting on the smooth planes of his chest. The kiss is soft—just like the sweater under Patrick’s hands—slow and relaxed, and just as Patrick’s thinking of going for more, Jonny leans away. 

“We could order takeout or something?” he suggests, pressing the cold beer into Patrick’s waiting hand. “Can’t just have that sugar bomb for dinner.” 

“What’d you have in mind?” Patrick asks as Jonny leads them over to the couch. He produces like seven different delivery menus, which Patrick is very impressed with, but what he’s even more impressed with is— 

“Holy shit, an Xbox,” Patrick gasps in wonder, and Jonny chuckles, quirking a brow. 

“First time seein’ one?” 

“No, jerk. Mine gave me the red ring of death like, a month ago,” he says. “I’ve been going through serious withdrawals.” 

“Well, you wanna play?” Jonny asks, a challenging twinkle in his eye. 

Patrick does, so they do. 

For the longest time. 

Long enough for their Chinese to come—Patrick insists on paying for it, since Jonny got the pretzels, even though the price comparison was a bit unbalanced, he’ll admit—for them to finish it, and for the sun to go down. 

Long enough for Jonny to kick his ass in Mario Kart and NHL10, and for Patrick to knock the rust off and kick his back. 

Long enough that Patrick’s beginning to wonder if Jonny’s getting cold feet on the whole ‘possibly hooking up’ front. They kissed earlier, sure, but maybe kissing Patrick in the light of his own apartment wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for Jonny. They’ve been sitting here forever, thighs pressed together, bumping into each other occasionally, and it’s been a great time—the _best_ fucking time—don’t get him wrong, but— 

Patrick wants, that low-key arousal growing more urgent with each shift of Jonny’s warm thigh against his, each glance over to catch Jonny tugging his lower lip between his teeth in concentration, each mini-tantrum Jonny throws when he loses. Patrick wants. 

“So, uh, you havin’ second thoughts?” Patrick asks when he can’t keep it in any longer, so quietly he barely hears himself, so he’s surprised Jonny makes it out. 

He pauses their game to look at Patrick, clearly puzzled. 

“What do you mean?” 

Patrick feels his face flush with embarrassment. The thought of voicing this out loud leaves him wanting to disappear into the couch, but he presses on.

“I mean, I dunno, we’ve been, uh—I was thinking you wanted to…” he trails off, eyes roaming Jonny’s body suggestively, but unable to meet his eyes; he’s pretty sure he got his point across.

“Oh, I fucking want to,” Jonny tells him, an unquestionable certainty in his voice that shatters all illusions Patrick was under that he didn’t. Jonny sets his remote on the coffee table, shifting so his shin is pressed along Patrick’s thigh. “I thought we were—I didn’t want you to think that’s all I’m after here, Patrick. I—we’re havin’ a good time, yeah?” 

“Of course, absolutely. A _great_ time,” Patrick assures him, stuck on that admission: Jonny’s after things, with him—things that aren’t just sex… He feels his pulse racing, so turned on it’s verging on painful, and Jonny hasn’t even touched him yet. Patrick prays that changes very soon. 

It does. 

Jonny takes Patrick’s chin between his fingers, tilting his face so they’re making eye contact. Jonny likes that; Patrick knows it about him already. His eyes are on fire, an amused smile spreading to his lips. 

“If you’re ready to cut the shit though…” he says, and Patrick nods, running his tongue over his lips as he thinks about running it over Jonny’s. 

“I am,” he says, swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat, a bit surprised when Jonny starts slow. 

He reaches up with big, strong hands, perfectly cradling Patrick’s face, and he’s such a sucker for that shit; Jonny holding him with such tenderness, thumbs ghosting over Patrick’s cheekbones, fingers scratching through his hair. Patrick practically melts under his touch, lips parting as he relaxes into it. Then they’re kissing, and it’s nothing like the one in the kitchen earlier. Jonny’s mouth is rough and needy and taking, a striking counterpoint to his gentle hands on Patrick’s face. Patrick whines into his mouth, hand sliding up Jonny’s thick thigh, then underneath that soft sweater to his hard abs. 

The angle is weird like this, so Patrick finally takes it upon himself to swing his leg over to straddle Jonny’s lap, and the moment he does it, he’s aware of how hard he is, how hard Jonny is. 

“Fuck yeah, Patrick,” Jonny mumbles, appreciative of the change in position, and Patrick surges into him, arms around Jonny’s neck as he grinds down into his erection, outlined clearly by those tight ass pants—something else to test their limits. Jonny’s hands move to Patrick’s ass, squeezing and urging him on. “Christ, that feels good." 

“Mhmmm,” Patrick agrees, capturing Jonny’s mouth again. 

Kissing him is the greatest, he decides—exploring Jonny’s mouth with his tongue; figuring out that he likes a little bite to it, some pain to go with the pleasure; moaning unbridled when Patrick sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and pulls back slightly, releasing it with a slick pop. It’s the best game of give and take Patrick’s ever played. 

“Wanna touch you,” Jonny says, and Patrick convulses at the thought alone, shifting back and up on his knees to give Jonny better access to the front of his jeans. He makes quick work of the button and zipper, and the next thing Patrick knows, his pants and boxers have been shimmied down his thighs and his dick—his actual dick—is in Jonny’s hand. 

Patrick groans, head falling to Jonny’s shoulder, and then he realizes Jonny’s wearing too many clothes. 

“Take this off,” he commands, scrabbling for the hem of his sweater, and Jonny releases him to help, ripping it off quickly and tossing it to the floor. 

Patrick’s mouth falls open. Jonny’s a fucking work of art. He looked good with the sweater, no doubt, but now— 

Patrick wants to eat him alive, get his mouth all over that. So he does, kissing and sucking and biting all along Jonny’s chest and shoulders. 

“Holy fuuuuck, you’re so hot,” Patrick mumbles, hissing in surprise when Jonny takes his dick in his hand again. 

“Wet—I like it wet,” Patrick informs him, and Jonny chuckles. 

“Demanding, aren’t ‘cha?” he teases, presenting Patrick with his hand, presumably for him to lick, so Patrick does, making a show of it, tongue dipping between Jonny’s fingers, eyes never leaving his. 

“Shit, Patrick,” Jonny swallows roughly, wrapping his moistened hand around Patrick’s cock again, and—yeahhh, that’s good. 

Patrick’s deepest regret in life is that this isn’t going to last very long; he knows his body, and he’s fully aware of how into Jonny his dick is right now, every stroke doing it for him. 

Jonny thumbs over the head, collecting pre-come to aid his spit-slicked hand in taking Patrick apart, one tight pass of it at a time. Patrick’s breathing is fucked, panting and ragged, as he pumps his hips into Jonny’s fist. 

He comes just like that no time later; all over those hard muscles Patrick can’t stop staring at, Jonny’s name and a litany of curses streaming from his mouth. Jonny talks him through it all, “Yeah, Patrick, mess me up,” and he moans, long and loud, pleasure sparking through him as he spills. Patrick can’t remember ever coming harder in his life. 

His mouth finds Jonny’s once he’s done, and Patrick lacks the wherewithal to kiss him properly, just collecting his breathing against Jonny’s lips. He doesn’t seem to mind, just holds Patrick and waits patiently until it’s his turn to get his. 

“Give me ten minutes, and you can fuck me,” Patrick mutters, words out of his mouth with no hesitation. Jonny’s dick twitches against Patrick’s thigh, and yeah, Patrick wants that in him like, yesterday. 

“ _Really_? I can?” Jonny asks, like he can’t believe it, and Patrick summons the energy to pull back and take Jonny’s face in his hands. 

“Jonny, you can have whatever you want,” Patrick says, matter of fact; then, because he’s a self-admitted little shit, he adds, with a grin to match: “I mean, if you think your fragile masc—” 

Jonny shuts him up with a kiss, real quick. 

Patrick doesn’t mind.

 

*****

 

Patrick’s cuddled into Jonny’s side under soft sheets, after having quite literally the best sex of his life. They’d fucked face-to-face, Jonny letting out a strained, “On your back, Patrick. Need to see you,” once prep was done. Patrick happily turned over—open, needy, and so ready for Jonny. He didn’t realize just how much he needed that too, to see him, until it was happening, Jonny filling him up so good with perfect, powerful thrusts, eyes hot, boring into his. 

Patrick shudders just thinking about it, remembering Jonny’s heat, body blanketing his, and rejoices in the fact that he’s still tangled in now. 

Then Jonny mumbles to him quietly, “You’re staying over, right?” and it makes it all that much better. 

Patrick smiles into his shoulder, fingers lazily tracing patterns along the hard lines of Jonny’s chest. “Unless you’re kickin’ me to the curb?” 

“Nope,” Jonny answers, popping the ‘p’ in Patrick’s ear. It tickles, making him squirm in Jonny’s arms. He just tightens his hold. “You’ve got a new shirt for tomorrow and everything.” 

“That’s right, I do.” That expensive fucking shirt… 

“Speaking of the mall,” Jonny continues casually, like he’s gearing up for pillow talk or some shit, “where did you go that day?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I rode back up, I looked for you, after…” Jonny half-explains, but it’s enough, Patrick gets it, and he can’t fucking believe it. 

“Wait, you mean you…that we could’ve—” Patrick’s struggling to say words, so he just comes out with the truth. “I hid in a store.” 

Jonny chuckles. “You hid in a store?” 

“I hid in a store,” Patrick repeats, kicking himself for it now. In his humble defense, he did have a hard-on to get under control at the time. Jonny doesn’t need to know that, though; it’s an admission for another day.

“Good thing I’m into delayed gratification, I guess,” Jonny says, offhand—Patrick files that away for another day as well—then he scoffs teasingly. “Hid in a fucking store, and that article was tryin’ to chirp _me_.” 

“Oh, shut uuup,” Patrick groans, wondering just how long Jonny’s going to dwell on that stupid thing. “It got you laid, didn’t it?” 

Jonny smooths his hand along Patrick’s jaw, looking serious all of a sudden, and kisses him sweetly. “I hope it got me more than that.” 

 _More._  

It’s a small word, but its implications are anything but insignificant. Patrick grins against Jonny’s mouth at the possibilities, the idea of more time together, absolutely beaming as he clings to him. 

“Yeah, Jonny. It did.” 

“Then it was worth it,” Jonny replies, brushing their lips together, and—yeah, it surely was.

Patrick chuckles to himself, recalling his protests to Abby, her inevitable ‘I told you so’ already ringing in his ears.

That’ll be fucking worth it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by some escalator prank video i saw on facebook... *shrugs*
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com)!


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